I've been impressed by a number of things since I
arrived here Sunday night. One of them is that I've heard many
authors speak for thirty minutes straight and make sense. I'm a
teacher as well as a writer, and I don't think I've ever talked for
thirty minutes straight and made sense. So I'm going to talk a
while and then read.

I wrote my talk last week and worked on it over and over, and
polished up the timing on Sunday night in my hotel room. Then on
Monday morning I heard Aidan Chambers speak and I threw out my talk
and started fresh.

When I was invited to speak in this workshop under the rubric of
"Exploding the Literary Canon," I didn't know what that meant. So,
in my usual blundering way, I decided to ignore it and just talk
about what I like to talk about - which is rules for writing -
three rules that I think make sense if interpreted the right way.
But Aidan Chambers explained the title of this workshop. He talked
about growing up working class in England from coal mining people
and at the age of sixteen looking around and finding that there was
no one like him in the literary canon. He talked about being an
outsider, then and now.

I grew up in a lower class Italian-American family and I felt
like an outsider. But I believe that maybe one of the defining
characteristics of adolescence is that for some significant period
of time between the ages of twelve and eighteen most of us feel
like outsiders. A lot of young adult literature today deals with
this feeling. With experience and time, however, most of us realize
that the variation in human behavior is wider than we might have
thought, and we come to accept our own behavior and those of the
people around us enough so that we eventually give up our
identities as outsiders. We have friends and find our niche. Still,
for some of us being an outsider is not just a certain perspective
on life - it is not something that naturally changes with time -
but, instead, is a lifelong characteristic. We are simply
different.

I was an odd kid, as we all maybe are. And I might have grown
quickly out of feeling like an outsider. But when I was thirteen,
my father brought public humiliation and disgrace on my family, and
the parents of my friends would no longer allow them to spend time
with me. I was a pariah in a real sense. It wasn't my perspective -
it wasn't something I could change by thinking about it and
maturing. It was a situation I found myself in. I don't feel like a
pariah anymore. I am definitely my father's daughter and I loved
him. But I live in my own house now, and that part of my childhood
is distant - it has little or nothing to do with my interactions
with the people I meet today.

Nevertheless, that period in life made me recognize the
existence of true outsiders and gave me a sense of what it feels
like. I realized, after listening to Aidan Chambers, that I often
write about true outsiders - and I put them in the very center of
my story - where the reader must face them.

So maybe it is appropriate that I was invited to speak in this
workshop, after all. I might not be exploding the literary canon -
but I may be helping to jiggle loose some of the screws so that
things can come apart more easily.

Much of my fiction is realistic - some of it historical. Other
stories of mine are fantasy in a contemporary setting. Where these
stories come from, I can't say. Stories jump into my head, and I
grab for them and hold on before they can fly away.

But around half of my fiction is founded in stories whose
sources are well known: fairy tales, myths, and religious stories.
These sources are, arguably, the literary canon that has stood the
test of time. And we can see why. In western culture, fairy tales
often deal with the evil we know exists around us and in us. In
western myths, we find explanations for daily phenomena - like the
fact that the sun crosses the sky and that, when we say "hello" in
a cave, we hear back "hello, hello" - phenomena that could
otherwise seem magical, and hence frightening. Stories that belong
to the western religions of today often confront the issue of
whether or not our knowledge that physical life is mortal renders
that life meaningless. So fairy tales, myths, and religious
stories, to my way of thinking, deal with the very heart and soul
of humanity. Perhaps that's why I've chosen to use them as the
foundation for my stories about true outsiders. (I say "perhaps"
because I certainly did not do it with forethought; it occurred to
me only as I thought about Aidan Chambers' remarks.) If I can
capture the enormous powers of this foundation, then I have a real
chance of seducing my reader into caring enough about the true
outsiders to walk around in their skin, with their flesh and their
bones, for a while. That's my goal.

Being a true outsider has moments of triumph and moments of
despair. Today I'll read an example of each.

The moment of triumph comes from my novel The Prince of the
Pond: Otherwise Known as De Fawg Pin. This is the frog prince
story. But it begins at the moment he is turned into a frog and it
ends when he is kissed and returns to his prince body. It is his
life as a frog. And it's told from the point of view of the woman
frog without whom he would have been snake meat fast. I'm reading a
chapter from the middle - the only thing you need to know in order
to understand what's going on is that, if you were turned into a
frog right now, your tongue would be different. It would be much
longer, and it would be attached at the very front of your mouth,
right behind your bottom jawbone. So you would have a significant
speech impediment.

Chapter Three: The Turtle

"What dat?" said Pin, leaping along the mud at the edge of the
pond.

"That's a water sow bug," I said. "How can you ask what it is?
Are you feeling all right?" I stared at him. "You know water sow
bugs, Pin. You have to. You must have eaten hundreds of them in
your life. Every pond frog has."

Pin swatted at the sow bug with his forefoot. It flew out of the
shallow water onto the mud. I'd never seen a frog swat at something
like that before. Pin stared at the seven pairs of thrashing legs
on the turned-over sow bug. "Not bug," he said.

"Well, you're right. It's not a bug. It's a crustacean. But we
call it a bug because it's so small."

"Tiny obteh," he said.

"Obteh?"

"Tiny cayfih," he said.

"Cayfih? Cayfih? Oh, crayfish. Yes. And obteh must be lobster.
Yes." I looked at Pin with new interest. The water birds that
stopped here every spring and fall talked sometimes about the sea
creatures, and I had heard them describe lobsters. Most of the
frogs I knew were too afraid of being eaten to do anything but dive
underwater when the birds came. I didn't dive, though. I hid among
the rocks and listened. The other frogs knew only about the pond
they lived in. But I knew whatever I overheard the birds say. I
knew about the huge wonderful world away from this pond. Pin must
be a curious frog, like me. "Yes, yes," I said, leaping closer to
Pin. "The sow bug is like a tiny lobster."

The sow bug righted itself. Pin swatted it onto its back again.
"Obteh good to eat," said Pin.

"Who are you kidding? You've never tasted a lobster," I
said.

"I have eaten obteh," said Pin. "Many time."

"What a story!" I said. "Lobsters live in salt water. Amphibians
don't.

You've never been near a lobster." I shot out my tongue and ate
the sow bug. "Don't give yourself airs. I'm impressed by your size
alone. You don't need to make up silly stories about eating
lobster."

"I have eaten obteh many time!" Pin drummed his forelegs in the
mud. "Many time!"

At that moment the mud moved. I leaped for the grassy bank.
"Leap, you crazy frog," I shouted. "Leap, leap!"

Pin stayed in his crouch, and the mud lifted up right under
him.

"Oh, leap!" I hopped about in the grass wildly. I feared the
worst. And my fear was right: It was the dreaded snapping turtle!
Pin sat smack-dab in the middle of the back of the most hideous
creature of the pond.

What was the matter with that frog? He acted like he hadn't felt
the movement in the mud, but all frogs feel the slightest movement,
even in dry ground. Pin should have recognized the danger
instantly. He should have leaped for safety, like any sensible
frog. Like me.

Instead, he sat there, looking around. Helpless. It was as
though he didn't know the first thing about pond life. Oh, poor
dead frog. And just when it was beginning to get interesting
knowing him.

The turtle shook the mud off its face and lifted its horny head
high.

"Who's that on my back?"

"Pin," said Pin.

"Pin? Who are you, Pin?" " Fawg," said Pin.

"Fawg?" The turtle twisted its neck so that it could see Pin
sitting on the high ridge of its shell. "You're a frog."

"De Fawg Pin," Pin said.

"De Fawg Pin?" The turtle snapped at the air a few times. "Well,
come on down here where I can eat you."

"I'm not dumb," said Pin. His tongue fell out. He pulled it back
in. I had to admit he looked dumb when he did that.

"Hmmm," said the turtle. "You're on my back. You're pretty
dumb."

"No," said Pin. "You under me. You petty dumb."

"You talk funny," said the turtle.

Pin blinked.

"Okay, wise guy," said the turtle. "Just try to get off of me.
I'll snap you in half."

"Bad idea," said Pin.

The turtle took a few steps forward. "Did you fall off yet?"

"You dumb," said Pin. "Dumb, dumb, dumb."

"You're making me mad," said the turtle.

"You mad? I'm de one mad," said Pin. "I'm a fawg."

"What are you saying?" said the turtle. "What does being a frog
have to do with being mad?"

"I'm mad at being a fawg. Oh, am I mad," said Pin.

"You're mad at being a frog?" said the turtle.

"Mad," said Pin. "You one dumb tuh-tuh, and I'm one mad
fawg."

"You're going to be one dead fawg in a minute," said the turtle.
He leaned way to the left.

Pin slid to the left.

The turtle snapped just as Pin managed to pull himself back up
to the ridge of the shell.

The turtle leaned way to the right.

Pin slid to the right.

The turtle snapped again, and again Pin managed to get back to
the high ridge just in time.

"You de king of dumb," said Pin. "You can't get me."

"Yes I can," said the turtle. He leaned way to the right, but
Pin leaped up and landed right on the shell ridge. He leaned way to
the left, but Pin leaped again.

Right.

Leap.

Left.

Leap.

"All right," shouted the turtle. "This is war." He leaned all
the way to the right and flipped over just as Pin leaped onto the
mud.

The turtle whipped around on its back and snapped. But Pin
leaped again, into the tall grasses beside me. "Hi," he said.

I stared at him.

"I'll get you yet," shouted the turtle as he struggled to stick
his saw-toothed tail down into the mud.

"You too dumb," Pin shouted back.

"You're the dumb one!"

"Den why you on back and I not in tummy?"

"Next time," screamed the turtle. His tail was now fully in the
mud. He used it to flip himself back onto his feet. "Next
time!"

Pin leaped back toward the turtle.

"Stop," I called after him. "Stay away from reptiles. He'll kill
you."

Pin picked up a stick in his mouth. I'd never seen a frog with a
stick in his mouth before. My jaw fell open, and my tongue lolled
out. Right then I must have looked like him when his tongue fell
out. I snapped my tongue back in my mouth. Pin looked at the turtle
and spit the stick through the air.

The turtle snapped the stick in half.

Pin picked up a rock in his mouth and looked at me.

"You're very crazy," I said.

Pin spit the rock at the turtle.

The turtle snapped at the rock. "Owwwww!" he screamed. "That
hurt!"

Pin leaped back beside me. "Dumb, dumb, dumb," he said.

The other excerpt is from my novel The Song of the Magdalene, a
book that certainly ends in triumph - but which I'm using today to
exemplify a moment of despair. This is the story of a girl from the
age of ten to eighteen in the land we now call Israel. It takes
place in the first century, a time of political and consequently
religious upheaval. She is the daughter of a wealthy widower. As a
young child she goes off alone to a part of the valley owned by her
father. This very act marks her as different, since girls didn't go
places alone, and she does it furtively. One day while she's in the
valley, she has an epileptic seizure. In that time and place,
illnesses of that sort were believed to be evidence that a devil
had entered your body, invited there by an impurity of your soul.
This girl, Miriam, realizes that if she tells about her seizure,
she will never marry - never have children. She will be cast out of
the most important parts of life, from her perspective. So she
keeps her illness a secret. In her house lives a servant and the
servant's son, Abraham. Abraham has cerebral palsy, with partial
control over only one of his hands. The village of Magdala
considers him an idiot, but he is able to talk well enough so that
Miriam understands him and they become good friends. One day when
they are alone, Miriam has a seizure and falls near the fireplace.
Abraham manages to get her away so that only her hand is burned.
When she comes to, she finds out that Abraham has told his mother
that Miriam hit her head while bending over the fireplace and
that's how she went unconscious. I'll read to you now the passage
of Miriam and Abraham together alone for the first time after that
seizure.

Abraham's eyes wandered from my face. "I saw a boy have a fit
once. Years ago. I was with your father. He took me to visit a
healer who lived in a hut on the plain of Genezareth." Abraham
paused. "It was hot and oppressive." He stopped, almost as though
the memory made him tired. Then he turned his eyes back to me. "But
the land was rich, farming land, and the green helped to make the
heat bearable. I was breathing that heat. And so was the boy who
came to be healed. Just like me. And he went rigid, thrashing stiff
arms and legs. And he shook fast." Abraham's eyes were unmoving. He
licked his lips. "Just like you."

I sidled closer. I hadn't known that I thrashed and shook, but
of course that's what made me feel so exhausted. "What happened to
him?"

"He opened his mouth wide."

I put my hands to the corners of my mouth, which still ached
from stretching. I had opened my mouth wide like a snake. There
were many poisonous snakes in our land, the asp, the horned viper,
the adder. Was I full of toxins, or was I merely a harmless
colubrine that sneaked through the rocks and grasses? "What
happened to him?"

"He spit and drooled. After that he made no more noise. His face
turned blue, then dark purple. He stopped shaking." Abraham looked
toward the fire. "He was dead."

I held my right hand, the burned hand, cupped in my left and
rocked back and forth over it, my eyes closed. "Unclean."

"Nonsense."

I snapped my head up. "The boy was unclean. Unclean before death
and unclean after."

"Why do you say that?"

"Why?" Was Abraham daft after all? "Everyone says that."

"Not everyone, only the stupid and thoughtless."

I stared at Abraham. "Where do you think illness comes from if
not a lack of purity?"

"Are babies unclean, Miriam?"

"Babies? Of course not."

"I was born like this, Miriam. I was born with paralysis. I
committed no sin."

But Abraham's father might have committed a sin and the sins of
a father can be visited upon his child. Still, I couldn't say that
to Abraham. In our household no one ever spoke of Abraham's father.
"Job," I said slowly. "Maybe you are like Job. Maybe the Creator
tests you."

"I have never questioned the Creator. I am not like Job."
Abraham jerked his right hand out. "Look."

I took his hand and turned it over. "Teeth marks."

"Your teeth marks."

The marks were red and raw. I was mortified. "I bit you?"

"You foamed at the mouth and your teeth clenched. I remembered
how the boy died years ago in Genezareth. I was afraid you'd stop
breathing, like him. I was afraid you'd drown in your saliva. I
pushed you until your head was sideways so that when your mouth
opened again, the spit could pass. But my hand wasn't quick enough
getting out of the way when you closed your jaws again. I believe I
am lucky to have a hand at all."

I ran my fingers over the grooves in Abraham's hand. His words
slowly began to make sense. "You helped me breathe."

"And you bit me." Abraham laughed. "Fine reward."

I dropped his hand and drew myself away from his laughter. What
if I had really bitten his hand off - his right hand which was the
only limb he controlled? These demons within me, these demons that
could have stolen Abraham's one hold on the physical world, made me
want to vomit - vomit and vomit until my retching turned me inside
out and I was free of their evil. I was dangerous. And here Abraham
was laughing. "But weren't you afraid of me? Weren't you afraid of
the demons within me?"

Abraham laughed louder. "Demons. Is that who you're blaming for
biting me?"

I shook my head hard. My eyes burned with the need to cry.
"Don't you believe I'm a sinner? You may be one, too."

"Sinners?" Abraham sighed. "Oh, Miriam, I wish I could sin. But
all I can do is watch."

I stared at him. "Envy," I said slowly.

"Yes." Abraham's voice was heavy and sad. "Envy is a sin.
Coveting is a sin." His eyes wandered once more. "Yes, I'm a
sinner. But you're not, Miriam."

"I went into the valley alone. Women don't go alone."

"You didn't sin, Miriam. You broke no law of Moses and Israel.
You're not sick because you sinned, Miriam. I'm not sick because I
sinned. If there's anything I've figured out in my life, it's that
invalids aren't any more sinners than anyone else."

Abraham's words sounded heretical. I was glad no one else was
around to hear them. Yet I was equally glad that I had heard them.
If the Torah didn't say that invalids were evil, then it didn't
have to be so. And surely babies were not evil. Abraham might be
right. How I wanted him to be right.

Perhaps his palsy, perhaps my fits, were just accidents of the
body, like stomach pains that came and went, only that much more
exaggerated. Maybe healers were the answer, after all. It might
just be a matter of finding the right medicine. Something to be
gained with searching and luck. I thought of all the herbs Mother
had taught me about. "Abraham, do you know hyssop?"

"Hyssop and bignonia and polygonum and -"

"No, stop."

"We tried them, Miriam. Between my mother and Daniel, we tried
every extract known. When I was small, I drank so many disgusting
brews." Abraham's voice rose.

I couldn't bear it. I wouldn't bear it. There had to be
something they hadn't tried. "Then a poultice - yes, a poultice of
fish brine or..."

"The liver of a marten? Something simple." Abraham panted, as
though out of breath. "Something simple, Miriam? Oh, no. There is
nothing simple. Not for me, at least."

Nothing simple for Abraham. Nothing simple for me. No evil, yet
still no escape. "Why?" The words came from deep in my throat, like
a howl. "Why am I sick, Abraham? Why do I have fits?"

He looked at me.

I whispered, "Why us?"

"I don't know, Miriam. I don't think anyone knows but the
Creator."

I moved still closer to Abraham, until our shoulders touched. We
sat side by side and looked into the fire. "Is there no hope for
us?"

"If you mean, will things turn out well, will we be healed, I
cannot answer. I doubt it for me. I cannot guess for you. But if
you mean, will things make sense, then maybe, Miriam."

"Sense," I said. Maybe my fits made sense. I looked around at
the stone walls of our house and I couldn't imagine how any of this
made sense.

The frog prince is like those around him in his frog body, but
his heart and soul and mind are human. Miriam and Abraham are like
those around them in their heart and soul and mind, but their
bodies render them different. These are the ultimate outsiders.

But my outsiders do not grow embittered or wither. The frog
prince learns to love the pond world and he infuses his spirit into
those who come to know him. And Miriam, through harsh testing of
her stamina and beliefs, comes to recognize her own strength and
goes to help the great healer of her times, Joshua, the Jew that
the Romans called Jesus. She is known in the New Testament by her
Roman name Maria, or Mary Magdalene. These outsiders and all the
outsiders I write about eventually wind up at the same point: no
matter how much of an outsider we may be, our spirit is what
defines us - it is the source of our solace - it is what ultimately
binds all of us to those around us, sometimes in spite of
ourselves.

Donna Jo Napoli, who teaches at Swarthmore College, spoke to
the 1996 ALAN Workshop in Chicago.